


meanwhile, there will be the winter moon

by Teddy (I_am_lampy)



Series: Standalone Stories [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Love at First Sight, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 01:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17674250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/Teddy
Summary: John Watson is a sheep rancher in the Northwest Scottish Highlands. Sherlock Holmes is on the trail of a serial killer when he crashes his rented cross-terrain motorbike near John's house during a harsh winter storm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _burn_ : (chiefly Scottish) (N. English) a small stream; a brook.
> 
>  _berm_ : 1. a flat strip of land, raised bank, or terrace bordering a river or canal.
> 
> In the first chapter of this story, the _burn_ is sandwiched between two steep _berms_ because the running water has eroded soil and created a mini- canyon through which the burn runs.
> 
> In the poem quoted at the beginning, the narrator refers to "gey dreich greyness." In modern Scotland, "gey dreich" is almost always used as a reference to weather to mean the same as "dreary." However, the word also means oppressive, bleak, dismal and so forth.

 

> In the Mid-Midwinter

> Liz Lochhead
> 
> _after John Donne’s ‘A Nocturnal on St Lucy’s Day’_
> 
>   
>  At midday on the year’s midnight  
>  into my mind came  
>  _I saw the new moon late yestreen_  
>  _wi the auld moon in her airms_  
>  though, no,  
>  there is no moon of course –  
>  there’s nothing very much to speak of anything to speak of  
>  in the sky except a gey dreich greyness  
>  rain-laden over Glasgow and today  
>  there is the very least of even this for us to get  
>  but  
>  _the light comes back_  
>  _the light always comes back_  
>  and this begins tomorrow with  
>  however many minutes more of sun and serotonin.
> 
> Meanwhile  
>  there will be the winter moon for us to love the longest,  
>  fat in the frosty sky among the sharpest stars,  
>  and lines of old songs we can’t remember  
>  why we know  
>  or when first we heard them  
>  will aye come back  
>  once in a blue moon to us  
>  unbidden  
>  and bless us with their long-travelled light.
> 
> From _Fugitive Colours_ (Edinburgh: Polygon, 2016)

* * *

I'm on my way into Inveraray to watch the footie when I see him. This road is private and the only place it leads is to my house or to the Darrow's place. A gate cuts it off from the old military road that emerges from the trees and runs parallel to the River Shira. So there shouldn't be anyone out here that I don't know, and certainly not anyone who'd be idiot enough to get himself stuck down the bottom of a burn. There's dozens of them everywhere and over time they erode away the earth, creating steep sides. This is where he is. I wouldn't have seen him if it weren't for the flapping up of his coat as he falls down the five foot, thirty degree gradient berm he's trying to climb.

I turn my fifteen year old Mercedes G Wagon off the road and slowly work my way towards him. There's freezing rain pissing down. Slowly, I back the Wagon to the edge of the burn, and put it in neutral, leaving the car running. As I step out, he disappears again, and then his head pops up as he tries to climb his way out. _Stubborn fuck_ , I think. Then, _fucking foreigners_ , although for all I know, he _could_ be Scottish. Just because you're born in Scotland doesn't mean you're a highland outdoorsman.

I want to tell him to stop trying to climb the side, but the wind is blowing too loudly—the wind is always blowing too loudly out on the moors—so I don't waste time or body heat. I just get to work attaching the harness to the winch. Then I climb into the back of the Wagon, dig through my emergency box and drag out two fleece blankets, some instant pocket warmers, two old towels, and water, and lay them out on a plastic tarp I have spread out. I took all the seats out when I bought it five years ago so there's plenty of room for me to lay him down if he's injured.

I make sure my med kit is in reach and then climb out of the back and attach the harness we normally use for rescuing sheep to the carabiner hooks on the end of the winch cable. The harness, winch motor, and the cable itself are all constructed and guaranteed to hold up to four hundred pounds—in other words, constructed to haul up a big man holding onto a fatly pregnant ewe without overtaxing the motor or the leather harness breaking. I'd guess my damsel in distress is about a hundred eighty or ninety pounds. Turning on the winch motor, I feed out enough of the cable so that the harness will reach the idiot stuck in the burn and then I turn it off, follow the line and lean over the side until I see him.

There's a motorbike overturned in the water running at the bottom of the burn and the man—looking like Snow White if she were a really pissed off bloke—gestures impatiently for me to drop the harness. I expect gratitude, but as I give him instructions for how to put the harness around himself, all I get is hostility.

Once he says he's ready and does a last safety check at my insistence with a sullen eye rolling, I go back to the Wagon and turn the winch back on, keeping the pull on slow. I'm wearing heavy duty, sheepskin-lined leather work gloves and I keep both hands on the winch line as it pulls him up. The harness itself isn't designed for human use—it's meant to fit around the belly of a sheep. For the lucky man or woman who's bringing the sheep up, there is a seat harness that looks a little like a leather jock strap. Some maneuvering is required on the part of whoever's in it to avoid being dragged flailing up the side like the sheep do when I use it on them, the daft buggers. Apparently _this_ daft bugger has the grace of a sheep or his right ankle is busted because every time he tries to get his feet against the side of berm, he flinches and puts his weight onto his left foot, which then slides in the mud without the counterweight of his right foot and sends him flailing.

"Fucking hell," I mutter and turn off the winch. I go over to the burn and lean over the side. "Stop trying to use your feet against the side of the berm! Lean back in the harness, cross your legs at the knee, and draw them up against your bum. Just let the winch do its job, yeah? Stop trying to climb the damn berm yourself." I wait for him to nod. His face is deathly white, and I'm struck with sympathy even as I shake my head. _Fucking tourists_.

When I finally get him up out of the burn and out of the harness, I help him limp over to the Wagon and set him down on the open hatch. Doing some quick triage, I diagnose a sprained right ankle and hypothermia. He's shaking so hard he can't speak and now that he's out of the burn, all of his hostility has fled leaving behind a man who looks as though he can't quite believe he's going to live after all.

Coated in mud to his knees with more spattered up his clothes as far as his face, I can still see he's gorgeous. Despite the bedraggled appearance, the skin so white it glows, and lips tinted almost purple from hypothermia, he's beautiful enough that I'm momentarily distracted and have to push myself to refocus on my job.

"Th-th-th—"

"Don't talk," I snap. "Can you feel your hands? Shake your head yes or no." He shakes his head and I nod grimly. That's what I'd expected to hear. "I need to get you out of these wet clothes as quickly as possible and wrapped in blankets before we do anything else. The nearest hospital is over an hour away, but my house is just along that road there. I'm a doctor. I'll take you to my house and get you stabilized, then if I think you need anything I can't provide, I'll drive you to the hospital. On that, my word is law, clear?"

He nods his head with narrowed eyes and I have the feeling that his nod meant _we'll see._ He's a stubborn one, my damsel in distress.

I strip him quickly down to his pants, a pair of black boxer briefs that hug shapely thighs. I can't stop myself from glancing at his crotch. Even half frozen, his dick is eye-popping. It's definitely not proportionate to his height—if he were eight feet tall, maybe, but at roughly six foot, maybe an inch more, that is one sizable bit of real estate.

Luckily, I'm used to naked bodies, so I can take all this in without the patient—or damsel in distress, in this case—noticing I'm eyeing his junk. Except when I glance up, I see him smirking, one eyebrow cocked suggestively. I feel my skin heat, but being busted doesn't make me pause for even a second in my ministrations. I situate him in a reclining position, crawling into the back of the Wagon after him so at least I'm out of the rain, trying not to drip any water on his now dry skin. I wrap him in a fleece blanket, crack half a dozen chemical warmers and tuck them around the trunk of his body, then overlay another fleece blanket on him. I tuck his wet hair in a towel, turban-style while he watches me with glittering, curious eyes, my skin flushing under his scrutiny. His eyes are an impossible color—like a pearl grey-green-blue. I tear my eyes away from his and finish tucking him in.

"I'll deal with that ankle when we get to my house. Are you good to go?"

He nods his head, his smirk gone and begins to shiver almost violently.

"You fool," I mutter, but regret it when he turns his face away, curling in on himself even more than he already is. "We're only a few minutes from my house. A hot shower and some brandy, then I'll fix your foot."

I back out of the Wagon and slam the hatch door shut. The sleet has turned to ice. Winter in the highlands is dangerous in the best of circumstances.

The engine is running, the heater on full blast and the inside of the Wagon is too hot for me. I pull off my wet jacket and toss it into the footwell of the passenger seat. Then I pull back onto the road and turn back towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware Brave Reader: Herein I get my nerd on and flex that $45,000 education in literary criticism. Forthwith, I discuss poetry, love, loss and - most importantly - man on man action. And I do it in less than 800 words!
> 
> The John Donne poem referenced in "In the Mid-Midwinter" is basically about death, darkness, etc. St. Lucy's Day is the shortest day of the year, that is, "the midnight of the year." It's about mourning the death of the beloved; the lover left behind might as well be dead, too. He certainly _feels_ dead. The light has gone out of his world.
> 
> By contrast, "In the Mid-Midwinter" claims "the light comes back/the light always comes back." It's a retort, of sorts, to Donne's poem. No matter how bleak the darkest night, light is on the horizon. In the "meanwhile, there will be the winter moon for us to love the longest." 
> 
> Or, as Tennyson said in his poem "In Memoriam A.H.H": "'Tis better to have loved and lost/than never to have loved at all," which he wrote after the death of his best friend. I'm sure one could argue for a queer interpretation, but I believe Tennyson's relationship with Arthur Henry Hallum (A.H.H.) fell under the Aristotelian idea of the friend as soul mate. Of course, that bumps up against the "heroic love" ideal from ancient Greece, Achilles and Patroclus being the most famous, followed by David and Jonathan, and even later, Alexander and Hephaestion. Then again, there was probably not a whole lot of chaste love happening between these guys and their besties.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm Sherlock Holmes and you're not a serial killer," he says as casual as can be, while drying his hair with a towel and showing off his hairy ankles and freakishly long toes in my too short trackie bottoms.

I don't even know how to respond to something like that, but luckily I don't have to know because he just keeps talking. That's also good because it allows me to stare at his truly, absurdly long toes. They're like fucking _fingers_. I wonder if he can pick things up with them? It's rude, probably, to stare at someone's naked feet, but I reckon it's better to stare at his feet than at his crotch where the trackie bottoms fit a bit snug. The hoodie, at least, is big enough to fit him. His bony wrists show, which just illustrates how different in size we are because that thing absolutely drowns me. I don't even know why I've kept it around. Maybe in case I ever got fat.

"While you took my clothes down to your utility room, I snooped around. Even if I hadn't already known within about fifteen minutes of meeting you that you weren't a serial killer, that quick snoop pretty much gave it away. This house is too personal, too lived in, too _homey_ to belong to a serial killer. The only thing you match is the one witness report we have and the area."

"Georgie's boy is about my height, blonde. I suppose you could go see if he's the serial killer," I joke, my eyes catching on his and the amusement there. But then he abruptly straightens and looks to the side pensively, and says, almost to himself, "I might just do that."

"And you don't even have to go into town to ask him. He's the one who'll be coming out with the tow truck tomorrow." I start to add _hopefully_ then realize I hope for the exact opposite. Suddenly, Sherlock's penetrating eyes and wild, black hair, and those stupidly freaky feet are all I can think about.

Is there such a thing as love at first sight? Surely, not. But, damn, if I don't want to drop to my knees and press my face against the too tight front of those tracksuit bottoms and offer myself to him. I haven't been with anyone since I moved out here to become a sheep rancher and that was almost four years ago. An aching desperation steals over me, crushing me. I'm suffocating with the need for him to touch me.

I only realize I'm staring when he lifts an eyebrow, the side of his mouth quirked up. God, he knows I've been staring and probably what I've been thinking. I flush hotly, ashamed, and turn away. I can't keep my eyes off of him for long, though, and I can see a tiny bit of pink just brushing along the sides of his cheeks and jaws.

Does he want me, too?

_Please want me, too._

If there's one thing I know how to do, it's flirt. I break out my biggest shit-eating grin. "Let's break out a bottle or two of wine, I'll put something together for supper, and you can tell me all about the life of Sherlock Holmes. I _have_ heard of you, now that I think about it. Even all the way up here in the middle of nowhere." That's a lie, but it makes him flush with pride so I can't feel guilty for it. I move to the tiny bar tucked next to us in an alcove and gesture to the wine rack. "D'you have a preference?" I ask, stepping behind the counter.

"Men," he says, and I lift my head up above the bar and say, "Excuse me?" only it comes out more of a croak. He smiles, sultry as fuck, and says, "My preference is men. You, on the other hand, are bisexual, but I don't think you have much experience with men." He takes a deep breath and claps his hands together. "As for wine, I prefer dry."

I'm burning up, face and body. I open the wine fridge and bend to press my face into it. I feel him move and I jerk upright. One of his hands lands on my hip and the other appears in front of me clutching a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. I feel his body heat behind me, but we're not touching. If I were brave, I would lean back against him.

I am not brave.

"This one looks good," he murmurs in my ear, then the hand on my hip disappears. "Corkscrew?"

"Behind you, in the wooden box." My voice comes out even, but my hands are shaking. I'm terrified—it's terrifying how painfully I want him. By this time tomorrow he'll be gone, and if I let this go past a bit of flirting, it will kill me when he leaves. It's best not to let it go anywhere, then.

~*~

We talk about his work consulting for the London Metropolitan Police, AKA New Scotland Yard. We talk about my work which is considerably less interesting to most people, but then he asks questions and it's clear he's genuinely curious and not just asking them to be polite.

I pull a second steak out of the freezer and prep two sweet potatoes to bake in the oven for ninety minutes. While we wait, I push snacks on Sherlock—pecan halves imported from Texas, USA; two leftover sausage rolls; six chocolate HobNobs. We also polish off a bottle of wine.

"I've never had sweet potato," Sherlock says when we sit down to eat.

Sweet potatoes are still something of a novelty in the British Isles and I've been crazy about them since I first tasted one a couple of years ago. Once he takes a bite, I ask him, "What do you think?"

"Interesting," he says, but it's only when I hand over the bowl of dark molasses soaked sugar for topping the sweet potato that he really appreciates the taste.

"Sweet tooth, eh?" I chuckle.

"Mm," he agrees, eyes closing as the orange, sugar soaked flesh disappears into his mouth.

I open up a second bottle of wine. Sherlock's face is suffused with a healthy pink glow. My eyes are hungry for him. The alcohol has mellowed my need a little bit, diffused it so that it sits inside me, warm and pleasant, rather than the ravaging burn from earlier. Outside, the ice storm has stopped. 

I'm marginally drunk when we sit down in front of the fire after dinner. Sherlock remarks on the fact that it's a genuine wood-burning fireplace rather than gas. I nod, full of food and drink and basking in the heat of the fire and Sherlock's company.

When he kisses me, I'm both surprised and not surprised. One minute he's sat in one of the plush chairs in front of the fire, injured ankle propped on a cushion, the next he's bending over me, tilting my chin up.

His mouth opens against mine and he moves his lips slow, languid, sweet. Then alarm spreads through me, and the desperation comes roaring back. I let out a noise, a moan, a whimper and Sherlock pulls back. He stands up and looks at me, head cocked like he's confused about my reaction. He steps back, offers me a tangled smile and whispers, "Good night, John."

I can't catch him before the guest room door closes quietly and with finality.

~*~

I can't sleep. The hours drag by. All I can think is that tomorrow he'll be gone and I'm lying here alone when I could be with him, even if all we did was sit in companionable silence. Shortly after midnight, my bedroom door opens. I sit up in bed. I'm wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt and thick flannel pajamas, but even with that on, I still feel a shiver when the duvet drops to my waist.

He's just standing there in the open doorway in my biggest tracksuit bottoms which don't reach his ankles and the extra large hoodie Georgie or someone had thrown in the back of my Wagon once after rounding up stray sheep. I open my mouth to say something, but then don't. Instinctively I know to be silent. So instead of asking him if he needs anything, I just flip back the duvet on the other side of the bed. He makes his way over without hesitation.

He lies down and rolls over to face me in one fluid motion before he pulls the duvet up to his neck. I'm already facing him and I do the same. For a moment neither of us does anything. His eyes tell me what I need to know— _we have tonight only._

So I indulge myself. I reach out and touch his hair. It's not as soft as I thought it would be. A bit coarse, actually. It still feels amazing. I grip a bit of hair, not tightly, just enough to tug to let him know I want him to move closer. He does and I meet him in the middle. Before we settle again, my fingers are already tracing his pale skin. There's only a half moon in the sky, but the automatic plug light in the bathroom gives off enough illumination for me to see his outline at least. I wish I could just reach over and switch on the lamp, so I could see him properly. He's right gorgeous, he is, and I'd give anything to be able to take my time exploring his naked body in sunlight, but I know that's not allowed. That makes it sound like there are rules, but I don't think it's so much that there's _rules_ as that we both know what this is.

And what it isn't.

It seems cruel what we're doing to ourselves, but I also know that there isn't another way. That's not entirely true—I suppose I could've pretended to be asleep and he would've gone back to my spare room and that would've been an end to it.

But if this is all I can have, I'm going to taste and enjoy and store away every moment of this one chance I've been given. After all, it has to last a lifetime. He's so beautiful, and I want to tell him, but I don't want to break the spell. We touch and kiss and shed our clothes, every brush of skin on skin feeling like the edges of two storm fronts skating against each other, electricity crackling between us.

He pulls me on top of him, or tries to, but I stop him, reaching under the bed for the bottle of lube I stash there. I hand it to him, but he shakes his head and hands it back to me. When he spreads his legs and pulls his knees up, I gulp and he smiles, that sultry smirk again. He bites his lower lip with just the edge of one tooth and I settle back on my haunches and squirt lube onto my fingers.

Our vow of silence is broken only by the noises of passion and sex and climax.

When he comes, his mouth opens in a silent howl of delight, and I'm stilled by how stunning he is. I mean, he's always been stunning (I say _always_ like I've known him more than seven hours), but there's something about orgasm that makes people look either stupid or otherworldly and Sherlock's reaction is otherworldly. It's like I've captured some exotic fey creature who masquerades as human, but turns into leaves if anyone speaks or something like that.

He grinds against me, perhaps to remind me what we're doing, and I pick the pace up again, and his face settles into post-orgasmic lassitude and then he whispers _John_ with this smile that's both contented, puckish, and incredibly sad. I pull out and hold him to me, suddenly near tears. God, how could this have happened? He reaches down to my crotch, but I shake my head, wrapping him in my arms tighter, like I'm a straight jacket, and bury my face in his neck. How will I let him go tomorrow?

He tries again to take me in hand, but my erection is waning. I care so much less about coming than I do about holding him and breathing in his smell and _loving_ him for this briefest blink of time. He pets me, understanding, and we lie there wrapped in each other. I like to believe he doesn't notice my tears, but I've pretty much figured out he doesn't miss a damn thing.

We rock together in a way that has nothing to do with sex. This is love and loss in one fell swoop, and I know we both feel it.

~*~

I fall asleep without realizing it because I wake to an empty bed. In the living room, Sherlock is already dressed in his own clothes.

"The tow truck is on its way," he says, standing awkwardly. I can't tell if it's because of his ankle or because of what happened between us.

I gesture towards him. "Let me, uh, have a look at your—"

"That won't be necessary. It's actually not as bad as it looked last night. The swelling has gone down."

I can't tell beneath his jeans whether that's true or not, but it doesn't matter. He's eager to be out of here so I nod my head in acquiescence. The lump in my throat expands—I wouldn't be able to say anything even if there was something to say.

I fry up some sausage and eggs for breakfast and we eat and drink tea in silence. We are distinctly uncomfortable with each other. I could argue that the deep contentment we shared last night before and after dinner was a result of the alcohol but it wasn't.

It was so much more than a one night stand—there was reverence and adoration between us. But it wasn't ever going to last beyond the morning. We never spoke a word after he came to my bed because we knew the end was bare hours away.

Georgie and his boy arrive with the truck. I'd hoped one or the other would come alone and then I'd have to drive out to help them hook up Sherlock's bike, but no luck. I start to follow Sherlock out, but he whips around and stops me. For a minute, his mouth moves without any sound, and I see my own sorrow reflected in his eyes.

Finally, he thrusts his hand out. "Thank you," he says, those two words drowning in things he will never say to me.

Slowly, I take his hand and shake it, then nod, my smile—when I can finally force it out—watery and weak. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock," I manage.

I stand at the window and watch as he climbs into the cab of Georgie's truck. And then, just like that, he's gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter got too long so I split it in two. Chapter 4 should be ready in the next couple of days!

* * *

He has gone and he has taken all the light in my life with him.

~*~

My ancestors began raising and herding Cheviot sheep when Napoleon was still just an army grunt. Over two hundred years of nearly continuous operation, my family worked this farm. In my father's careless hands, though, we became mere tenants of our own land. I'd spent years buying it all back and turning this into a working farm again. I thought it was my destiny and told myself it was the reason I got shot in Afghanistan and invalided out of the army. It was my fate to rescue this farm, this inheritance from generations of Watsons before me. I owed it to them.

Before I met Sherlock Holmes, I liked being a sheep farmer. I liked the way life ebbed and flowed with the seasons on my farm, the predictability of the yearly cycle—the shearing in early spring, then the spring lambing, the butchering in humid summer, and the second season lambing in early fall. I had a small tribe of sorts composed of my regular and seasonal workers as well as the neighboring farming family, the Darrows. If I wanted company, I could find it, even if finding someone to share my bed was nearly impossible. This cycle had carried me through four years of my life and who knows how long it would've continued to carry me if I'd never met Sherlock Holmes?

In my life, I've been damn good at letting go. I joined the army straight out of school because it was the only way to pay for my university education and medical degree. I became a doctor within the spartan framework of the military. In the army, you learn how to let go whether it's letting go of possessions or people or letting go of one home to move to another one. As a doctor, I learned to let go of patients when there was nothing else I could do for them. As a farmer, I learned to let go of the sheep I'd raised from birth when they had to go off to slaughter. Not only was I good at letting go, I was good at training myself not to want something I couldn't keep in the first place.

When it comes to _him_ , though, I can't let go.

~*~

Three months go by. We don't begin the shearing until the very end of March this year. It's too cold to do it any sooner. Like the last four years, Darrow—the sheep farmer next door—pool our resources (which mostly means workers) to get the shearing done. We shear my five hundred head of Cheviot in three days. Then it's my turn to go next door and help him with his.

The third day at Darrow's place finds one of Darrow's men hollering for me to come help with an ewe who's about to drop a lamb in the middle of the shed. We don't have time to pull her out and take her to one of the paddocks. She ends up giving birth in my lap.

One of the joys of raising Cheviots are the strength of the ewes' mothering instincts and the ease with which they lamb. Plus, the lambs are born alert and curious. It's a satisfying experience to work with a breed that's much more intelligent than your average wool producer.

Minutes after the infant plops into my lap, it's standing up and looking around, ears flicking while its mother's tongue works it over, cleaning it. It turns to face me and that's the moment I know I can't go on. I break down into ghastly, grieving sobs. The new mother looks alarmed, but the lamb continues to regard me with interest.

All I can think about is how many of these little guys I've seen come into the world who I send off for slaughter only a few years later, cutting their natural life span short by more than half. Yeah, it bothered me before I met _him_ , but it was life on a farm. You learn not to get attached. You learn how to let go.

Since Sherlock, though, I can't stop wanting to _hold on_.

"I've got to sell that goddamn farm," I say to myself under my tears. Then I herd the new mother and her lively, eager-for-life offspring into a lambing paddock where she'll have plenty of room, fresh water, and one of the farm hands can keep an eye on her and the little one.

After we're done for the day and Darrow invites us all to his house for supper, I announce to the gathered crowd that I'd appreciate it if they could spread the word through our vast and far-flung community of fellow shepherds that I'm selling my farm and everything in it.

I am greeted with a stunned silence and a sputtering Darrow says loudly, "You can't mean that, John! You've worked so hard to restore your ancestral heritage!"

The Scots—especially the highlanders—are very big on ancestral heritage. In their own way, they can be snobbier than the English aristocracy, if much coarser.

"I'm sorry, Finlay, but I do mean it."

"But, but— _why?_ " he almost bellows. The dirty and sweaty workers part as he makes his way towards me, his face creased in alarm.

I rub the back of my neck which is covered in itchy dander and shrug. "I fell in love."

Darrow's frown begins to ease slightly, and taking me aside to a quieter area out of earshot, he says, "And she can't be persuaded to move here?"

"It's, uh, not a _she_ ," I say with a nervous laugh.

Darrow's eyebrows climb into his hair and he takes a deep breath before correcting himself. "And _he_ can't be persuaded to move here?"

"He lives in London. He's a detective. New Scotland Yard." I don't tell him that he's a _consulting_ detective and not actually employed by the Metropolitan Police.

Darrow smiles sadly, and nods in resignation. He understands my predicament. His wife, Adie, is from Southern Australia. They met when Darrow traveled there to buy new stock for his herd from Adie's father. In her case, she moved from one sheep farm to another. Asking a detective to move to the desolate highlands where crime consists of the occasional public nuisance would be asking him to give up his life's work.

"Well, I know this wasn't your first choice of occupation," he finally concedes. "But you're a damn fine farmer, John. When you go, I'll miss the hell out of you."

Adie and the cooks hired for the shearing announce supper is ready outside on the half dozen trestle tables set up to feed the large number of regular and seasonal workers. With that, the matter of my selling is closed for discussion.

~*~

Most of my sheep are absorbed into the herds of wool farmers in the area. Seventy-three are left over and I'm forced to send them for slaughter, almost triple the amount I normally send off.

That night I cry so hard and so long I wake up the next day with broken capillaries in my cheeks.

~*~

In late October I find a buyer for the land—five hundred and twenty-three acres of land that's been in my family in this exact configuration, more or less, since the tail end of the eighteenth century. I don't think my forefathers would understand my motivation for selling, even if they wouldn't have found the idea of me with a man distasteful. Then again, they're dead, which is what I keep telling myself when guilt overwhelms me. There are only myself, my sister, Harry, and distant cousins left in my family. None of them have the slightest interest in carrying on the family work.

Sending good sheep off to slaughter was the second hardest letting go I've done so far. The hardest, though, is letting go of the land—not the land I own—but the highlands themselves. I may have grown up in London, but I spent school vacations here when my grandfather was still alive. He died when I was fourteen and my father's mismanagement of the finances meant we had to sell and then it was no longer our land to visit. Coming back four years ago, I found my love for the desolate moors to be as strong as ever.

It's not the type of place you grow to love. In many ways, how I feel about Sherlock matches how I felt about this land in my earliest memories of visiting my grandfather's farm. There was no _falling_ in love or _learning_ to love it—I simply did, from the first. Many people see desolation when they stand out here. They don't see what's there, only what's _not_. Not me—I see potential enough to thrill me for decades.

Just like with him.

~*~

Although the sale of the farm pays off my remaining mortgage on the farm, the profit is less than I'd hoped by about £50,000. Still, I'll walk away with six figures. I invest the bulk of it and put enough in my new London bank account to cover rent and expenses for a year, and then I hire an estate agent to find me a decent, but inexpensive flat.

Almost a year after I rescued my damsel in distress, I pack the Wagon with all my earthly possessions and stay one night in the Inveraray Inn. The next morning, I begin the eight-hour journey by car to London.

This is the point at which my grand plan breaks down. The truth is, I _have_ no plan. In fact, all the many fantasies in which I pictured our reunion began with me showing up on his doorstep. I've spent hours online stalking him and, for £49.95, I was able to get both his address and mobile number.

My new flat hasn't been furnished yet, so I check into The Marylebone Hotel at half past four on Friday afternoon in mid-December. After a good meal and a long, hot shower, I dress in my nicest trousers and a long sleeve blue Oxford shirt that I've been told matches my eyes. I pocket my wallet, keys, hotel room key card, and mobile phone.

With my hand on the latch of my hotel room door, I find myself balking.

I've spent the last nearly nine months in the process of selling my farm and it has been an exhausting ordeal and I've put myself through it without any guarantee that Sherlock Holmes will want anything to do with me. Perhaps I'm no more than a pleasant memory for him and my arriving at his front door to declare my love will end in discomfort for him and humiliation for me.

I've taken a great risk, but that knowledge has been with me this whole time. That's how I knew it was the right decision. I didn't need a guarantee of Sherlock returning my feelings to know that coming here was the right move.

Still, it takes me an unconscionably long time to force my sweaty hand to push down the door handle and leave my hotel room. My Grand Adventure is finally beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

I stand, palms sweating, on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street, staring at the glossy black door. I've just rung the buzzer and now I'm waiting for him to answer the door. It's dark out and the streets are full of people on this winter night. Despite the cold, I'm full of a hot buzz.

The door opens and I square my shoulders but it's not Sherlock who answers the door. I'm faced with an elderly woman in a flowered apron and an open, friendly face.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

"Ah, yes, my name's Dr. John Watson," (using my title tends to make people more trusting), "I'm looking for Sherlock?"

"Oh, do come in Dr. Watson. Is he expecting you?"

"Um, no," I say with a nervous grin, following her in.

"I'm Mrs. Hudson. I own the building. I live in the ground floor flat," she says, pointing to the door marked 221A. "Sherlock lives upstairs."

Mrs. Hudson leads me up to the first floor where there's another black door, this less glossy than the door to the building. It's opened a crack.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson calls, pushing open the door and walking in. "You've got a visitor!"

She walks immediately to the kitchen and, muttering under her breath, begins straightening up the mess all over the kitchen table. There's chemistry equipment, stacks of newspapers, pens, half full mugs of cold tea, dirty plates in the sink—general disarray and untidiness. The complete opposite of how I kept my own house.

"I just cleaned this table yesterday," she says, shaking her head in exasperation, then she lifts her head again and hollers, "Sherlock!" loud enough to startle me. There's no answer and Mrs. Hudson looks at me. "He should be here. Would you like a cup of tea, Dr. Watson?"

"Uh, yeah, yes, thank you. And, please, call me John."

"I have cranberry and white chocolate biscuits still warm from the oven. Why don't you put the kettle on while I run downstairs and grab them? It's right there."

Mrs. Hudson nods towards the electric kettle in the corner and then she points at a cabinet next to the sink. "Mugs are in there. Tea bags should be in that tin right there."

After delivering my orders, Mrs. Hudson marches off, her pumps clicking on the hardwood floors. Obediently, I fill the kettle and set it into the heating element, trying to squash the urge to snoop. I get down three mugs, collect three tea bags to drop into them, and open the fridge to get out the milk.

There's a human head in the fridge. On a plate.

I slam the refrigerator door shut and stand there, eyes wide.

Deeper in the flat, I hear footsteps and then Sherlock rounds the edge of the wall, yawning and scratching his balls, his hair a wild mess. He's wearing a dressing gown but it's not belted and there's nothing on beneath it.

Seeing me, he jerks back and gathers the two sides of his dressing gown to him, pulling the belt tight, all while recognition is dawning on his face.

"It's you," Sherlock says, staring at me in a combination of awe and bafflement.

"You have a head in your fridge," I say like an idiot.

"Ah, yes, experiment about saliva—not important. What are you _doing_ here?"

"Mrs. Hudson—is that her name? She let me in," I say.

"No, I mean, _why_ , why are you here?"

"For you, actually," I say, then frown, my lips twisting to the side.

"For me?" he asks, stepping closer.

"Yes. Well, I suppose I'll just come straight out and say it, and if you think I'm a loony, you can just send me packing. In March, I had a nervous breakdown in my neighbor's shearing shed. Bit embarrassing, that, and, well—more than a bit embarrassing, actually. I couldn't do it anymore, you see. Letting go of everything, that is. By the way, Mrs. Hudson went downstairs to get biscuits in case you were wondering why I'm making three cups of tea when there's only two of us."

"John," he says with an amused half smile. "How did crying in your neighbor's sheep shed lead you to my kitchen?"

"Yeah, I was getting to that, thanks. I, um—shit, this is so embarrassing. Okay, I think I'm in love—well, no, I _know_ I'm in love with you, there's no maybe about it. I realized that I couldn't spend the rest of my life alone on that ranch without you. So I decided to sell, but it took me a while to get rid of five hundred sheep and just as many acres of land. But, look, don't feel obligated, okay? If you don't feel the same, at least I'm living in London now and we can, you know, date or, uh, something."

"You're in love with me," Sherlock says flatly, looking dubious.

"Yeah." I nod my head rapidly. He stares at me, his head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed like I've presented him with something too complicated and confusing to understand. My veins fill with ice. "I don't know what I was thinking. I'll go," I say and begin to turn just as the kettle stars to boil. Before I can escape, Sherlock grabs me by the bicep to stop me and then presses me up against the fridge.

"If you are worried I don't love you back," he says softly, looking down at my face, which he takes in his hands, "Then you're an idiot. Move in with me. I could use your expertise."

"My expertise? Expertise in what—sheep farming? And I can't live with you. I, uh, already rented a flat."

"I need your expertise as a doctor, though one never knows when knowledge of running a sheep farm will come in handy during a case!" he says excitedly. "Cancel your rented flat and live with me.

"Oh, so that's all you want from me? My medical expertise and experience running a sheep farm on the off chance it'll come in handy?"

"Oh, no, John," Sherlock murmurs, pressing up against me. "I need your expertise _and_ this beautiful tight body, and this gorgeous face, and this silky hair, and those thin, soft pink lips," He touches every part as he names it, his touch both gentle and possessive, as though he knows I already belong to him.

(Because I do, of course. I do already belong to him. I was his the minute he walked out of my bathroom and said, _I'm Sherlock Holmes and you're not a serial killer._ )

"So, just my expertise and my body? That's all you need?" I whisper.

"I need _you_ , John. Just you."

Then he kisses me, his body pressing tight to mine, and a combination of relief, arousal, and sense memory pours over me and it feels like I'm gripping the dressing coat at his waist hard enough to rip through the silk.

"Oh, good heavens! Sorry to interrupt, boys! I was just bringing up the biscuits. Homemade, too, John, just so you know. None of that processed food you get from the Tesco's bakery."

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouts, still staring at me. We don't break eye contact at all. "We're quite busy. Leave the biscuits and move along."

"Sherlock," I chide. Then, without my eyes leaving Sherlock's, I say, "Thank you for the biscuits, Mrs. Hudson. They're lovely."

Sherlock starts to turn us towards what I presume is his bedroom, but then stops, and hollers over his shoulder, "Please show yourself out, Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson says something, but I don't hear because Sherlock has already maneuvered us into the room and kicked the door shut. His eyes are so alive and full of joy. Then he's kissing me and I'm pushing that silk dressing gown off his shoulders and we're falling on the bed.

We're in love and we're together and I am done letting go. It's time to hold on.

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [Tumblr](https://iamlampyao3.tumblr.com/)!


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